


blood like rain

by ruthlesslistener



Category: 2P Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Broken Bones, Character Analysis, Emotional Trauma, Gen, Mentions of past abuse, murder mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 15:13:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6962128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruthlesslistener/pseuds/ruthlesslistener
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pain, to him, was nothing but another enemy hovering at the point of his blade; vanquishable, mortal, destructable. (Update! Format fixed)</p>
            </blockquote>





	blood like rain

He never saw pain as anything but a mortal weakness.

Blood, broken bones, the burn of a whip against his skin; he was born for it-born for war, for abuse, for death. The world had turned its back on him and had paid, and, when it had stung him for his sins, he had retaliated, and not repented. He was the flash of blades slicing through flesh, the purr of the wildcat as it snapped the spine of the prey beneath his claws.

He was not the keeper of pain, but pain itself. And-though the scars twisting his body burned at the thought, aching with memories forgotten by the mind, but not the flesh- he could not afford to be anything else.

Blood was his wine, screams and whimpers of pain his music of the night. The taste was all the sweeter when drawn from the bodies of his enemies, the bright crimson spray dappling his skin as his knives rent them in two. Their pain was his pleasure, feeding the darkness lying dormant within him, soothing the coiled snake of his bitter anger. 

Sometimes, they fought; sometimes, they resisted, their weakness evident as they threw their brittle bodies in front of their loved ones, as the mothers were wont to do. He looked forward to those fights; though bittersweet and short, they were ruthless and passionate, a dance of blades and crude weapons until the bite of silver drained them dry.

He remembers the aftermath of one of them; a young woman, weak with sickness and woe, had thrown him out the window as he stalked forward to cull her. He'd landed hard, bones of one ankle shattering as he thudded to the cobblestones, and he remembered the lances of white-hot agony that twisted through his blood as he bounded up to finish her off.

He remembered, perhaps more vividly, the fury and twinge of sadness he felt as he limped through the door of her bedroom to see her slumped and dribbling blood from her mouth, the plague having taken her sooner than he.

He remembers the adrenaline crash; he remembers the resurgence of agony as he walked away. He remembers it with the fevered obsession of a man haunted by death; the delicious sharpness of the splintered bones grinding against his flesh was terrifyingly mortal, the wobble in his step a weakness that struck him with nigh-obsessive panic.

The snap of his bones, the dizzying pain that followed; to him, it was nothing. The weakness of his heart, the wobble in his step, the pounding rush of the blood in his ears as he stumbled; the inevitable reminder of the frailty of his humanity, clear dregs left by after the pain washed down...

...that, to him, was everything.

...

(Tired 12:00 a.m. drabble)


End file.
